


Haas Lok Ahraan

by lacklustreAxe



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Language Barrier, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2018-12-18 03:01:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11865282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacklustreAxe/pseuds/lacklustreAxe
Summary: Dovahkiin, Vitomir Emil, from the shadows of Skyrim to the centre of attention in Thedas. With new titles, companions, enemies, and difficulties to face. Just how would a Dunmer react to 'knife-ear'?





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Anytime Emil speaks in another language it will be between: []. Example: “[Splendid day, ain’t it?]” Anything that is commonplace in Thedas will not have those brackets.
> 
> Be sure to drop a comment and a kudos if you think I deserve it. A bit of peer-pressure from my readers will go a long way in making me write more.  
> Maybe if I'm motivated enough I'll draw Emil, or Mod Skyrim/Dragon age to the point a screen shot of him doesn't look like hot garbage. That or I'll take a lazy visit to one of those dress-up websites or ms-paint, who knows.

He had started too many quests with his neck on the line. Not knowing what he had done to invoke his situation, let alone what he had done wrong. His throat coarse and dry. His hands tied in front of him, not wise. If he could muster his strength, and if he could angle himself right, he could take out the guards in front of the door. With what element? Spoiled for choice.

His eyes slits, side of his head against the stone floor, he studies the room. Dark, damp, and cold. Fucking typical, it never could be a bedroom lined with furs, a noble taking a fancy to their thief. A punishment in seduction. I'll steal your sweet-roll. He smiles at his own joke. He opens his eyes and shifts in the attempt to upright himself, and grunts in pain at the tension in his muscles. Smile now gone. How long had he been out?  
He feels exposed in his shrouded armour. He hadn’t joined the dark brotherhood no. They had sent so many assassins his way he felt as though they are his acquaintance at this point. The armour was a keepsake and a taunt, they had not killed him yet, but he sure killed plenty of them. But now, without the guise of shadow, he felt rightfully silly. Tight leather clinging to his lithe form.  
He could have sworn he was wearing something over the top of it. Some robe and cloak. His captors must have confiscated it from him. That and his pack. Leaving him in what he is now due to the lack of knowledge on how to remove it, and what it concealed. Had they known of the daggers and lock picks he would be in nothing but his smalls.  
His palm throbbed and he inhaled sharp. They had taken his left glove, so he could see the green light emanating from mud grey skin. Curious, and unsettling.  
The guards now aware of his consciousness call out something he doesn’t understand. Two more guards join them and pull him up-right. Now on his knees and swords aimed at his throat. He gulps, despite everything he’s been through, a weapon in his direction is still an unwelcome sight. One guard shivers at the intensity of his scowl. His eyes and intimidation tactic blessed upon him by his Dunmer heritage. The brown colour of dry blood.  
He had warmer tones than the typical Dunmer. Blood brown eyes instead of glowing red. His curly, cropped hair, same colour as his eyes, rather than the typical black. His skin was grey, but with a tan undertone. Perhaps his father was a Bosmer? Perhaps he shouldn’t think of his parents unless he wants to drink himself into a stupor. A luxury he doubts he has at the moment. Unless this was some nobles bedchamber.  
He hears muffled voices from outside the door. If they were speaking common, it was not the kind he was familiar with. The language of emotion, yet, is something he is more than familiar with. He did not understand what they were saying, but he could tell that they were angry. It was likely directed at him. Prepared for the worst the door slams open. Two women approach him.

 

* * *

 

 

There he was, the one who survived. Temper at boiling point, a mix of anger, sadness and sympathy. Cassandra tries to calm herself. She had lost someone, so had so many others. She needs to give them answers. She needs answers.  
“You, the one who walked out of the rift, how?” There is a curl to her lips. The man says nothing and she yanks his hand from his lap. “So many died, yet you live. Explain this,” She snarls her words.

“[Yeah, if we are to find common ground we need to use common tongue. What do you speak, besides threats?]” He replies, his eyebrows arched in a frown.

“Excuse me?” She allows the man to pull back his hands. She has no idea what he has said, and she knows it is the same for him. The man tries several different words, each seeming to be a different dialect than the last.  
He was running through the languages he knew, hell, he even attempted Ta’agra, though he wasn’t too well versed. He sighs. Well, now what? He wanted to say, and the feeling was mutual. Cassandra turns to the other red-head in the room.

“Go to the forward camp Leliana,” This elf may not understand now, but he will. She pulls him to his feet. A hand smacks to her chest and she states her name. “Cassandra,” She looks at him, expecting for him to do the same.

“Emil,” He says but does not gesture to himself the same way, his hands were still bound. He has a full name, he had not given it. He doubts she had given hers. The next hand smacks between his shoulder blades, not hard. She guides him out of the dungeon and into the green glow of outside, out of the church.

 

* * *

 

He looks up to the sky. It swirled intensely like the rise and fall of the sea. He looked down at his palm, so this is what all this about. He lifts his head to Cassandra, he understood now, at least a little bit. The wind nipped at the skin on his face, and the tight leather wasn’t doing much to help either. She cuts the rope that binds him and he flexes his fingers. Glad to be free of it. Last time he had his hands bound he almost got his head chopped off and a town burned down.

“[Lend me a hand here?]” He asks. He is met with a raised eyebrow. He rubs his eyes. He is already frustrated with what was going to be commonplace in his conversations from now on. He imitates shivering, knocking his knees together and rubbing his arms. A game of charades. He was sure his performance was comical, he meant it to be. He swears she did not even crack a smile. Harsh. But she does motion a guard to bring over a bundle of fabrics, his bundle of fabrics. He smiles as he slips on his master robes of destruction, hiding his leather-clung ass from view. Next is the cloak of the same faded black fabric, he leaves the hood down. Last is the wolf pelt, wrapped over his shoulders and tickling his jawline. Warmer, but still naked in a different regard.  
He stares at the guard before checking behind him for his pack. A defeated sigh, no way they would hand it over, not yet, not while he was still a prisoner. What a prisoner was doing out of his cell yet, was a question to have answered. Turning to Cassandra, equipped in all but his weapons and a left glove.

“[Lead the way,]” He says. Cassandra takes it as compliance, not that he had a real choice.

 

* * *

 

 

Their way to their destination had been otherwise pleasant if it were not for the hole in the sky. That and the running panic of soldiers, and the throbbing pain that shot up his arm, racking his whole body. And the bridge blowing up from under them. Landing hard on the ice they both stand sore. Cassandra draws her sword as creatures Emil had never seen rose from the misty piles that fell from the sky. She rushes off to meet them, yelling something at Emil.  
He looks around and spots a sword, assuming she was asking for aid. It is in his hands even before another demon rises in front of him. He cuts it down with ease. Too bad what he found wasn’t a mace. When the situation did not call for subtlety, he preferred a weapon with weight in his hand. In the distance, Cassandra is not having as much luck. Her shield is up against a barrage of attack from two contenders. Splitting her attention and her defences. Emil puts the enchantment of his master robe to good use. He hurls an icy spear from his palm, skewering one of the demons.  
Cassandra lands the final blow on the remaining foe before turning her attention to Emil. She charges towards him sword drawn. He drops his own and offers his palms, holding them up with innocence. He does not reach for one of the several daggers on him.

“Where is your staff?” She demands, pointing at him then the demon he had slain. It was magic, he had to have a staff, but she only sees a sword by his feet, and a confused grin on his lips.

“[The ice? Is that it?]” He takes a step forward as non-threatening as he can. Cassandra’s guard unwavering. He kneels over the demon he cut down with a sword and casts. Ice spreads on its skin as it would a glass pane in Windhelm. “[I did it, I don’t understand your anger,]”

“Well that’s something else,” She could feel herself ageing by the second. “I have no idea how you did that, but you can, and you haven’t used it against us yet.” She gestures to his weapon for him to pick it up “Not that you need it.” He picks it up and they press on. How could that elf cast without a staff, better yet, how does she ask about it? Ugh.The frustration escapes her.

 

* * *

 

  
Demons descend from the sky and descend upon them. They leave a path of bodies in their wake. Emil is sure not to aim to close to Cassandra with his magic, he would not want to spook her again. He almost chuckles at the thought of her composure lost.  
Next thing he knows, Cassandra charges ahead and he tunes into the sound of battle. He runs to catch up with her. A mob of demons attack a small group of guards, 3, and two more without the uniform. They join the fight. He swaps between weapons. Magic, then the sword. Shattering their frozen corpses with the hilt.  
He only throws ice, keeping fire and others for another occasion. Fire, in particular, was harder to control. He did not want to scorch the people that are fighting alongside him. He had too many lectures from Marcurio to not be careful. He had paid the man 500 gold, hell, he would pay him 500 more to shut him up. He should have least known getting hurt was apart of the job description, friendly fire or not. Speaking of which.  
He throws an ice spear through the chest of one of the demons. Chest being the biggest target. It had gotten too close to one of the long-range fighters, the short, archer one. The archer then speaks.

“Owe ya one, lefty!” A grin on his face. Emil liked him already

The fight ends and Cassandra offered commands to the soldiers, all still alive. Now Emil could notice how much shorter man was. Dwemer? Could Cassandra be an Imperial? And the other elf with the smug aura? Classic Altmer. At least that would have been his guess in Skyrim, here, he had no clue. Was he out long enough to travel across the ocean? If so, he was thankful that he had skipped over the sea-sickness.

“How was it that you used magic? Dalish? No Vallaslin, an apostate?” The bald one spoke. Brow heavy with a quizzical look.

“Hold up Solas, he doesn’t even know our names. And who cares when it’s not aimed at us,” Varric turns to Emil with the same grin as before. “I’m afraid we haven’t met. That’s Solas and I’m Varric. Cassandra’s other prisoner, we already have so much in common.”

“As much as you like the sound of your own voice, Emil here can’t understand you. Nor can I understand him. I’m hoping Solas would be a solution to that.” Cassandra says. She looks at him and Solas clears his throat. He asks if Emil if he speaks elvish.

“[You’re wasting your breath, I can understand you as well as her.]” Emil shakes his head. The least he can do is attempt to learn their names. He points to himself and says his name, then repeats the process with Cassandra. He points to the elf that tried to speak to him.

“Solas,” He responds. Emil then goes to point at the short archer but is beat to the punch. His hand taken into a shake, which he reciprocates.

“Way ahead of ya' kid, I’m Varric.” He puts his other hand on his exposed chest.

“[Varric,]” Emil repeats smiling. He thinks; your biggest target is your chest too-  
His thought interrupted when slender fingers take his wrist from Varric's hand. It raised towards the smaller cut in the sky. His arm lurches forward, drawn in by a pull of power. Magic forced from his palm, he feels out of control. He hates it, the pain in his palm had doubled from before. It's numb throbbing turning into the thuds of a drum. He grunts in pain, and the sky seals.  
He yanks his hand from Solas and holds it with a vice grip. He could feel the beating from his hand in the other. Like this mark was an organ in itself, pumping and withdrawing its foreign magic into his very being. His skin felt like it was bubbling over, like boiling water.

“[Warn me next time,]” He hisses under his breath. More for himself than Solas. He could curse him as a milk-drinker and his mother a whore and he would not know it. Something that, given different circumstances, would entertain him to no end.

“It seems you have the key to fixing all this seeker,” Solas says to Cassandra. “Whatever opened the breach in the sky also placed this mark on his hand,”

“Which means we have a chance,” Cassandra sounds hopeful, but her scowl returns.

“Now it’s a matter of letting Emil know, somehow,” Emil’s ears perk to his name. He knows whatever he’s gotten himself into, there is no getting out of it.

 

* * *

 

 

Being the chosen one in every given situation was not as it’s cracked up to be. This was then confirmed by another crippling surge up his forearm. The pain had amplified the throbbing that had not subsided from closing the rift. He falls to his knees and loud whimper emits. He would be embarrassed by that sound if could hear it over the ringing in his ears. He can not recall the hands that help him to his feet. And his vision is still a blur as they journey forward.  
He stays out of the next fight, but they handle it with enough ease that he feels no guilt from the sidelines. The hairs on his neck stand and his attention drawn to the path on the left. His current companions had already made haste towards the forward pass.

“[Wait!]” He calls out. They turn to see his heading towards the path that grabbed his interest. They follow and arrive in time to save a soldier from sharing the fate of her comrades. Felled by the wrath of demons.  
His ears were right to send them on this detour. Emil offers a hand on the woman's shoulder and a sympathetic, yet stern look. There was nothing in the way of words he could give to ease her loss. He lets Cassandra talk to her and he loots what he can off the demons. He wraps a strip of hard skin and a talon in the cloth he also pilfered from the body. He was sure that under alchemist observation it would lend an upper hand in future fights.  
His companions not phased by his sudden mutilation of the dead. They turn toward the path from before. Slipping the bundle into a safe spot, Emil follows suit. As does the soldier.  
It was wise of Cassandra to add the soldier to the party, regardless of how brief it was. Another rift closed before them and the woman joins the guards at the gates, helping them open the doors. If they had sent her where they had come from, there was no telling if new beast lurked.

“Key or whatever, that thing on his hand is useful,” Varric says.

“I agree,” Solas replies

 

* * *

 

 

Emil walks in stride with Cassandra. She approaches a table with her previous red-headed companion. The archer and elf mage follow close behind. No one has the opportunity to speak when the white-clad man looks up from the map on the table.

“And what is the prisoner doing out of his bindings? Had you forgotten this elf is behind the murder of our most holy?” A sneer with a sharp tongue. Emil was sure what he had said meant to wound.

“This elf, ” Cassandra mimics, a challenge in her tone. “-is innocent as far as I’m concerned. Emil has done more to help the situation at hand. More than throwing about blind accusations,”

“Somewhat hypocritical of you seeker?” Varric interjects but ignored. Emil does, yet, aim to interject as Varric had.

“[As much as I love a good shouting match. This green shit isn’t going away anytime soon,]” He gestures to the sky with his left hand. Making sure the mark that matched it was in full view. Varric chuckles.

“I agree with lefty here.” He had no idea what Emil said, but it was definitely in protest of the current bickering. Cassandra strides to the table with confidence. Enough to make Roderick reconsider his ground. He does not take a step back though.

“What are our options Leliana?” She makes sure to stare the cleric down as she oversteps his so-called ‘authority’. Roderick acknowledges the insult by crossing his arms.

“You can meet with Cullen and press forward with his charge. Or there is the mountain path. Though several scouts took to that route and have not been heard of since.” She goes to the length of making sure that Emil could understand. She drags her finger slowly along the path with Cullen, letting him know it would not be the quick walk. She then repeats the process with the other path. Though a lot quicker, then places a dagger on the table, to warn him of extra danger. She looks to his face and finds he studies the map, understanding her attempt at translation.  
Emil knew what Leliana had said, without understanding a word. What he didn’t understand was the writing on the map, nor the land it labelled. His study cut short when Varric placed a hand on his elbow to grab his attention. Varric, too, pointed at the path that held extra danger, indicated by the placed dagger. Then his hand turned his attention to the female soldier they had saved earlier. Emil looked at her, she was receiving quick, and sloppy medical treatment. It took him a moment to piece together.

“[There are more like her on this path.]” He states. “[Then this is the path we take.]” He looks at Cassandra, who nods in agreement. Then they press forward, ignoring the babbling of the holy man made at their backs.

 

* * *

 

 

The climb up the mountainside was nothing when compared to The Seven Thousand Steps. Though he could not shake the fear a mountain troll lurked nearby. He did not want a repeat of that incident. Up the final ladder, they meet the entrance.  
The journey through the place was as swift as they could make it. Stopping only for Emil scoop stray coins into his possession. He had no idea of the value his own purse held in these lands. He was not fond of the thought of even cheap brew being beyond his financial reach. The exit was not as clear as the entrance had been, bodies piled. The mood grows sober.

“That can’t be all of them,” Cassandra observes, and she would be right. Further down the pass was yet another battle, and another rift. Emil, and the other long-range fighters in the party charge forward. No longer confined to the claustrophobia and fear of ricochet of stone walls, they let loose. Clearing a path for their warrior. Emil soon joins her, drawing the sword from his side. Finding that close quarter fighting gave the opportunity to push scouts from harm's way.  
Once all scouts are safe, Emil takes to closing the sky. Turning moments before the grateful face of what was the leader of the saved, shifted to him. He nods in acknowledgement.

 

* * *

 

 

When they reach the rubble of The Temple of Sacred Ashes, it is too close to home. Well, to close to the events at Helgen. Though he doubts this is the cause of a Dragon, at least he hopes so. He cringes at the open mouths and silent screams of charred corpses by the dozen. Emil is sure to keep his pace swift to what is left of the entrance, not wanting to linger too long among the dead.

“Do think he understands he survived this?” Asks Solas. Cassandra’s reply takes time.  
“I don’t know.” Her mood as low as she will allow it.

Inside the building and in full view of the abyss in the sky. Emil feels as if he were to trip, he would fall into it. His eyes scan to the glow closer to the ground. It’s doors closed to the demons that no doubt lurked behind it. He felt its link to the one in the sky, he did not like where he thought this was going.

“I’m afraid opening that thing may be our only means of closing the one up there,” Leliana joins the group with her own. “I’ve had countless scouts scope out our options, and despite tell against it, it’s the only option we have.”

“Unless green is the colour we want the sky to be,” Varric says.  
Solas laces his fingers together in a display for Emil. He then tears them from their lock together. Then indicating it was the rift he was mimicking.

“[I understand, thanks for the warning this time.]” Emil says. Leliana presents the dagger. It again, indicating the danger in the situation. This time he knew the danger was far beyond that of before. He would joke that she should pull out something larger and sharper than that if she wanted to scare him. But it would be a lie, he was just about wetting himself already.

 

* * *

 

 

On the way to lower ground, Varric is sure to push their unassuming friend far from the path of the red lyrium. He had seen Emil’s magic, who knows what negative effect red lyrium would have on him. Varric also verbalises his distaste of the stuff to those in the party that could understand him.  
In a position he does not quite grasp, Emil waits for the sign to open the hell portal. Emil was not looking forward to what it spat out, nor was anyone else. Speak of the devil. Something, unlike the foes he’s met so far. Something larger, something that’d send his tail between his legs had he own ones like a Khajiit or Argonian. A frame to boast about and horns to match. Dozens of eyes like a spider. A whip of electricity, which set his hair standing.  
Not to fight fire with fire, well, electricity with electricity, he kept to using his mana for ice spells. Keeping swift on his feet and the sword at his side. You could not pay him to get close to that thing. Not until he knows how to take it down at least. The ice seems to be doing well enough till he feels the draw of the rift encircles the beast. A shield. Yeah, because that’s what that mountain of muscle and hard skin needed, more defences. He attempts to pull the swirl of magic from him with the mark at his disposal, and he yells in surprise and success. Stripped of in defences and kneeling was enough of an opportunity for Emil.

“[FO KRAH DIIN]” He unleashes the power he had otherwise withheld, till now. Ice had not failed him so far and he expelled a blizzard from his throat. It acted as a brief substitute to the magic from his hands. His mana dwindling, he would need to use the shout again to end the demon.  
He roared a second time and ended the fight. They knew Emil possessed magic, but this was not expected, this was something else. Though their thoughts did not dwindle on it long. The breach still a heavy threat hanging above them. Emil did not have to be told. His hand raised before any second thoughts.  
Vision nothing but white and the hot pain the same. His arm ached like he dipped it in the forge, coating him in molten iron. His skin felt like it shifted as if the dragon souls he hosted bubbled against its surface. Among the screaming of his nerves, he hears a whisper. It tells him what he needs to do. Possessed by the moment he shouts once again in the language of the dragons. Was that also the language of the whisper? He is unsure. But these words structured in a way that never left his lips before.

“[HAAS LOK AHRAAN]” Emil fell. Unconscious to the results of his efforts. The sky healed, but the scar remained, threatening to open again.


	2. Two

Cassandra lingers at the door-frame of Adan’s apothecary. She was unsure she had the patience to deal with his complaints and whines. Though she also felt a fool. She has Adan taking care of her recent prisoner, one she was quick to claim innocent. Was his help given with honest intent? Or was it a matter of circumstance? Certainty, not an option when Emil is comatose for interrogation. Not that he could give answers anyway. Adan could be justified in his bitterness.

“Unless you're here to fill that requisition I inquired about some time ago, I’d suggest patience.” Adan’s gruff voice calls from deeper inside the building. Cassandra enters and finds the man hunched over splayed documents. “Our Maker-sent saviour still has some time til he rises to the morning's problems. I don’t have that luxury.” His morning problems spilling on almost all surfaces in the building. Enough loose paper to supply Haven with kindle for some time.

“Herald seems to be the most common term,” Cassandra says. The rumours origins were hard to place, but the spread was swift. Not that she and the others had done much to dose the flames. He was what they needed when they needed him most, and this rumour could work to their advantage.

“Are you sure that’s not because they can’t figure out whether to call him ‘knife-ear’ or ‘grey-skin’?” Adan asks more to stir than to get a response. Cassandra frowns at the slurs, but it was true. The controversy behind the elf, if that is what he was, is immense. She feels heavy on her feet but doesn’t sit. A mix of not showing weakness and the fact the only other chair in the room stacked high with books. “No matter. That Solas is with him now, trying to make sense of the guy.” Cassandra is sure her trust was well placed when it came to Solas at least. The elven apostate had not run when situations died down. She viewed that as a vouch for his character.

“How is Emil’s health coming along?” Cassandra asks.

“He seems to be taking well to treatment. His health should come around in a few days or so. I still can’t place his grey skin. Qunari, in part, or a very late stage in drinking too much for his insides to handle,” Adan voices his train of thought. “He did manage to stay awake long enough to help strip that armour off him. The gear did well to stop cuts. But he does have bruises over the majority of his torso,” Adan stands and goes to his workbench. He shuffles some things and gathers several items into a small crate. “Run these compounds over to him, would you? Let Solas take care of applying the stuff. Oh, and if you want more, stop by Threnn and sort it out. I’m all out of mater, that is unless you know a way to turn ink into a healing solution.” He hands the crate to Cassandra and takes to his seat again.

* * *

 

Cassandra does not go to Threnn, the woman swamped enough with demands. Adan spoke of patience, he himself a hypocrite in the next breath. The man could wait. Across Haven she takes the crate to the house that held Emil.  She enters to find Solas at his bedside, where Adan said she would find him.

“Ah, the remedies, thank you, Cassandra,” Solas speaks. He places Emil’s hand down on his chest from where he was studying it. He turns to face her. “Though I did not expect you to be the one doing the delivery.” She hands him the crate and Solas takes it to the bedside table. Cassandra’s curiosity sends her eyes to Emil’s hand. It’s palm on his bare chest. They had got him out of that armour. She thought it an impossible feat. Seeing the struggle the guards had. She sees his apparel folded at the foot of the bed. Harritt had asked to look at them to place where Emil had come from. Cassandra would take the pile to him when she was done here.

It is not long before Solas has that hand in his once again. He massaged one of the provided items into where Emil hands once glowed bright. It was now a series of lines, discoloured, darker than the rest of his skin. These lines trailed up his arm til his elbow. It seemed to follow a pattern, like lightning. Like the mark had spread through his veins. The green light no longer as noticeable, like a lantern under a blanket.

“Scar tissue,” Solas says, noticing her observation. “When he stopped the breach from spreading, it did to his arm instead.”

“Do you believe he’s innocent?” Cassandra asks. It comes as a surprise to Solas. He does not stop applying the oil. Used to avoid swelling and itching from burns. The room smelt strong of elfroot, the main ingredient in the stuff. The intricate patterns on Emil’s arm once bleed. After the breach sealed, his was skin welted and raw. What was strange was the wounds had self-cauterised. It had healed over, to clean the wounds they had to reopen them. Adan had done this in haste. He even dipped into his emergency reserve of alcohol to disinfect.  There is a calming pattern to Emil’s breathing. So unlike the chaos of events.  A lullaby without lyrics. If the man hurt, it did not disturb his slumber.

“He wants to help fix things,” Solas starts, being sure to choose his words well. “Emil had us go out of our way due to concern. The young woman would no doubt be a victim too if it weren’t for him.” He spoke of the lady soldier, whose cry Emil ran to. His own ears had not heard. All too busy with the task of battle.

“You are right, and there is no dwelling on it I suppose. If he were to harbor ill intentions he would not have thrown himself so willing into harm's way.” Cassandra reassures herself. If Emil were to be a snake after all, she would sever his head from its shoulders. She hoped it would not grow two more in turn. To make a martyr of The Herald of Andraste seems ill-advised. A repeat of history almost.

“I doubt he believed he would even survive it,” Solas recalls the tears. The break in Emil’s voice when he shouted at the sky. The voice that was so powerful only a breath before, as it fell the demon. It almost sounded like a sob. The blood against soot and snow as he lay in the dirt where he fell. The heavy sigh when those black eyes closed. Everyone had seen it. They had rushed to his side after some hesitation, but in time to see the man faint in pain.

The tellings of these events were not so bloody, not as violent. More heroic and inspiring. Those not clouded by fear and hope had a better understanding of what had transpired.

Solas wrapped the arm in fresh bindings. The old in a bucket to be washed.

* * *

 

Several days passed before red eyelashes parted. Emil’s head lifted from it’s pillow. Waking up in a startle. He was sore all over. Worse than when he had woken in the cold of a dungeon. Now it was the cold of a cabin. The fireplace slept as he had and a night robe unprovided. He looks down to see the bruises that spot his skin. They were almost faded, enlightening him to an idea of how long he’s been out. He's used to them from his usual day to day gallivanting. Ducking between giants legs and toppling off the backs off mammoths. His arm wrapped up, and despite wanting to see his hand he’d rather not pull it all off. Scared to what he would find underneath, but only a little bit.

It takes effort not to let his head drop to the pillow. Too tired to deal with his situation. What he wanted was a drink. What he _needed_ , was a drink. Hell, at this point he would down that skooma-lined swill. The one that Black-Briar bitch serves at Riften. The town of Riften was lovely, the lake lapping at rotting wood. Moss coated walls and people. The iron locks and the boarded up windows. The Fishing poles in hand and the smell. A corpse floating by, protection money unpaid. Lovely place. Emil hopes this place isn’t as ‘pleasant’.

He looks around the room, trying to find something to wear. There was nothing, but the sheets.

“[I can pull this off,]” He mutters to himself. Swaddled like a newborn he steps outside. His feet hate him as he tracks through the mud and snow. His head throbs and his instincts take him towards the loudest part of his surroundings. Knowing that the watering hole is where animals gather. Eyes follow him as he walks, he could not care less currently. None attempt to stop him.

The song from inside the tavern is much kinder on his ears than anything Mikael ever spewed up. Stares bore into him. He liked being the centre of attention usually. When he was not trying to hide on purpose. He would usually put on a bit of a show, tell tales and re-enact scenes with companions. The ones he paid enough that is. Even punch a few people in a bar fight if they were up for it.

He sat at the closest table, despite their being three seated there already. He was sure to face the door.

“[How do you do and all that.]” He takes the one of their cups. Without the coin or the words to order his own. He clinks it to the one sitting across from him as a toast. Too confused to protest otherwise Emil gulps the stranger's drink. When he sees his the other cup had gone untouched he takes it from their hand and sipped at it. The brew served was not that bad, decent stuff actually. It did well to sooth his throat and desires. The fire was better tended in the tavern, when compared to the one that dwindled where he woke. He could feel the heat radiating at his snowy toes, and through his make-shift robe.

* * *

 

Time passes in the tavern quick. Guards enter the tavern, distressed looks on their faces. Emil puts a finger up, indicating he will only be a second more before he comes quietly. He beckons the third at the table to hand over their cup.

“[Hurry up pal, I don’t have all day.]” His head nods at the guards who stood there watching. New recruits, or they have done this long enough to be laid back. The two explanations for why they let him continue this scene. A satisfied sigh and an inhale before he stands. He had drank his fill for now. He would be sure to find this lot again when he wanted a free meal. His hands grip onto the sheets he wore, falling off him almost. He departs from his new ‘friends’. He's ushered by the guards towards the large stone building. Some kind of house of worship. The house of worship Cassandra had walked him out of when the sky had fallen down. He looked towards the breach now re-aware of its existence. He felt some form of relief when he saw the thing was not spitting out any monsters at the moment.

The guards encircle him as they walk, hiding him from view. He was only a trip on a rock away from being in his briefs alone. The sky was growing dark. Some time around five in the afternoon he guessed. Inside the building he walks down a long hall.  Surprised when they do not turn off to the left door. The one that lead down to the jail-cells. Instead they approached the furthest door from the entrance and stopped there. One entered to announce their presence.

“We have the Herald with us.” The guard said.

“Then send him in,” A male voice called from inside. Emil had not heard this voice before. The guards state for him to go in. He guesses this is where their escort ends, and he enters the open door. He spots the man he had not met yet, blonde, with a strong jaw. Whatever that fur was that mounted his shoulders, it looked right warm. The man he observes can not hold back a laugh when he’s sees what Emil himself is wearing. The other woman he does not recognise wore gold silk and jewellery. His eyes trace along the value of her neck. She hid a lovely smile behind her hand. She too, amused with Emil. He pulled a large grin, proud of himself. He was sure these people were important, and he was already a step towards their good-side without any effort at all. He shifts his hold on the sheets to allow his leg to slip into view. Like he said, _he loved putting on a show_.

Besides the two new people there, was the angry holy man, Roderick, and the lady Leliana. Leliana had a small smile, and Roderick's frown about spread off his face with how large it was.

“Oh for the sake of the Maker,” Cassandra says. She walks in behind Emil. She had not thought Harritt’s observation would take as long enough to leave Emil without garb to wear. Not that she thought the elf would have the thought to prance about Haven near naked.  First thing after waking up from a coma no less. “Someone fetch Emil something to wear,” She would ask why no one had done so already. But the amused looks on the faces of the advisers answered her.

“Cassandra where did you find us this Herald,” Cullen mused.

“Yes, Cassandra,” Roderick says. Taking the joke Cullen asked and twisting it to suit him. “Where did you find this saviour of the people.” A mocking tone. From the voice of hate Emil had come to associate with the man.

“When he walked out of a rift or when he closed the breach?” She states, despite it sounding like a question. She did well to remind them of the situation. Despite the humour most present found in Emil.  He had done some remarkable things, and is addressed in high regard by many folk. “Emil is our Herald, but a Herald without a cause,” She begins. “Something the Inquisition would have him serve well.” She slams the heavy book down, startling the guard who entered with a simple tunic and trousers for Emil. Emil slips the clothes on under the blanket, sure to not reveal too much skin too soon. He’d love to see the blush on more than one pair of cheeks present, but that could wait. Everyone seemed to be so much more attractive the what he was used to. Maybe it was something in the water? Maybe everyone is Skyrim had been beaten with an ugly stick.

Now dressed in a peasant's garb, he throws the blanket over the head of the guard as they left. A teasing gesture.

“Are you _daft,”_ Roderick spits his words. “You claim to serve the divine, but to suggest such a thing is blasphemy to her name.”

“It is Justinia herself that ordered the Inquisition in the first place!” Cassandra retorts. Her thoughts go the woman that stood behind Emil in the fade. Had Justinia heard of this figure she too would say Andraste. Cassandra had no doubts she would be on the side of Emil, almost certain she would even like the man.

“It’s true.” Says Leliana. She takes to Emil’s side and leads him to stand at the table with the rest of them. She points to him.“Emil, you are The Herald of Andraste,” She says. This process of translation seemed to work well enough last time. She then hands him the book. “The Inquisition is what the people need to find peace,” Emil follows along with his eyes. She then taps his left palm and waves it over the map.

“[The sky broken still?]” The little relief he felt before gone. Grin turned into concentration. Emil nods. He knew, he was not going anywhere anytime soon. Much to the dismay of a certain man, whose red forehead pulsed a vein. Patience, a virtue not in his possession, like so many others beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than the previous chapter. About 2000 words less. I had a real tough time writing this chapter for some reason. Let's hope the next chapters not the same.  
> I also hope you enjoyed! Oh, and be a pal and help me with the tags, I've got no clue what to put haha


	3. Three

Emil is used to his skin being warm, to the point it could be mistaken for a fever. But he woke up shaking. A nightmare had taken to him in the night. Not the usual dragur den, though they were still present in the halls of The Blue Palace. Well dressed ghouls with hollow cheeks and stares. Clammy hands of bone clawing at his flesh. Torn and broken, drowning in a sea of bodies and eyes of disapproving onlookers. A reflection of himself in the pit of their glassed corneas, and he cannot recognise himself.

You never feel clean again after crawling in a dungeon. Dust coats your lungs with years of undisturbed peace. Only a few years, seeing that grave-robbers usually cleared out the places. He did not consider himself a grave robber. Rather, he thought of himself as a re-claimer. Giving the people back a part of history. And besides, those Nord's were not _his_ ancestors.

Any bad kismet flocking his was is not worth the coin he earned. A pittance for talisman, silverware, and aged wines. Still scraping by despite who he was and what he had done.

So many eyes on him, yet no one recognises him. Glory was claimed to those with names already. He was the deciding party for the civil war, being the Dovahkiin. He was Dovahkiin in rumours, but he was never Emil. The face behind the legend has a disconnection.  He feels cheated out of battles and other defining moments in history.

He had not fallen for the threat of an army and the slogan that preached xenophobia. ‘Skyrim belong to the Nords!’ they would holler. Not an intimidating battle cry when your stick is bigger than theirs.  That whole spiel with the runt bastard Ulfric Stormcloak was embarrassing. The man banned the animalistic races from his city and then divided the people within the gates.

How Emil’s mind raced with the mistreatment of his kind in the Gray Quarter, when he backed that coward into a corner. He did not use the man's tactic on him, a disarming shout was an unearned victory. He bested him on his terms The victory all the sweeter when the man grovelled and begged. His head then cleft from his shoulders with his lackey's weapon; Galmer’s axe. But if Ulfric had not been a mouse, and had not shouted his mace away, his head would be concave with a single hit. It is a messy job, chopping through the trunk of a neck when you are unfamiliar with how to wield two-handed weapons. He doubts the stone will ever scrub free of the stain Ulfric made when he bled out.

He presented the head to General Tullius. It was not a message of loyalty to The Imperials and their leash-bearers, The Thalmor. It was a warning of what he was capable of. Soon tongues no longer spoke of the death of Torygg at the words of Ulfric. It was well known that with a dragon's soul and ferocity one could dismantle a throne. And end a country's divide.

Emil’s fists ball in frustration when he thinks of this. Despite him being there, _being_ the events that transpired, he was scrubbed from it. Though his hands never felt clean of the blood he spilt for them. He finds himself thinking of the why of it all? What benefits had it to him? None the few passing years. Two years was age enough for his face to fade. He feels so insignificant. And the horrors that haunt his dreams mock him. All eyes are on him, but none are seeing. He thinks himself no better than a ghost. A wisp to fade with the pass of time. Skyrim’s relocation of him as flimsy that it ends with the subtle wind.

 

* * *

 

Emil was surprised when they let him walk out of Havens gate the first time. If he had the right mind he would have made a run for it. But there was still so much to learn. Such as the explanation to his situation. The whereabouts of the missing moon are something else. He has the name of the place he stayed at least. They had also given him the rundown of basic words such as what meant ‘yes’ and ‘no’. He even had the translation for the creature that stood in front of him, behind the low fence.

A horse with a matted mane. Weak in the knees. Thin to the point the rib-cage was visible. What a poor sight Emil thinks to himself as he hops the fence. He strides over to it and starts petting its side. A small comfort he can give with no food to offer. He had never purchased or even stolen a horseback in Skyrim, they are too big a target. Also, they make too grand an entrance. The creature in question takes a shit at Emil’s feet. So very majestic.

He doesn’t stop petting despite the stink. His mind wanders to that of the stray dogs he feeds on occasion. Most are in and around Riften. Too many all the time to do it consistently. Unless he wanted to go so out of pocket to make himself without the means of food and inn.

On the topic of strays, his mind drifts to the orphanage. Gerlod no longer among the living, Constance took care of Honorhall. Emil, whenever he visited, was sure to be a bad influence on the kids. Stories after bedtime and sweets before supper was his legacy to them. The big brother experience, as best as he could act it. He was an only child to his knowledge.

His stomach growls, reminding him again of the treats. He was sure he had a rope of taffy in his pack. He had developed a sweet-tooth based habit hanging out with those kids. Were they were as much an influence on him? Constance sure liked to treat him like one. If only she knew who ‘promoted’ her.

It was what got him in the dark brotherhood's bad books. But can they blame him? He broke into that Aventus kid’s house in hopes for some easy loot. Emil stumbling into him with all that sacrificial gore was not expected. He was not about to say no to what the kid asked. Helped that Gerold was such scum. Could he have blame for a few of the corpses in the river? Yes. He is likely revered as a king to hungry slaughterfish.

He also managed to tow that kid back to Riften. He would do good to grow up around other kids, rather than that tomb of his old life in Windhelm.

After the horse tries, one time too many, to eat Emil's hair he leaves its confinement. The grace in his jump back over the fence leaves much to desire. Despite the days that had gone by he was not used to being so off-balance. Left hand almost completely out of commission. Solas had been kind enough to show him the scar. The look on his face must have been quite expressive, seeing the way Solas looked at him in turn. Emil’s face was a mix of shock and amusement. He had never scarred like that before, and it made him look battle-worn. He would like to be flaunting it right now but soon after Solas had shown it to him, it was wrapped up once again.

It was Solas who had the patience to teach him the language. Commendable seeing Emil was not a model student. So far he had dealt with naps and daydreams by the dozen. Solas was learning his language himself in turn. Learning the most basic words were a struggle, pronunciation was something else.

It's hard to hide frustration. He had caught himself many times lost in thought. A frown where his mask should be. A smile of white teeth. Maybe some generous flattery and flirting. This was enough to trick most into the assumption of mental and emotional stability. Things made difficult without the words to guise lies of habit. Such as the picking at the skin and a shifting leg.

His leg was what gave him away this morning. He was bouncing it with such ferocity that the desk they sat at shook, spilling ink on leather-bound books. Solas had asked him if he was alright. Though it was in a very broken manner of speaking. He too was still learning.

He placed a hand on his back to comfort him. Something about Solas' hand on his back was calming. Emil was used physical contact to coax information and secrets from tight lips. Though he was sure to keep being friendly from becoming friendly. Physical contact on the primal level was something he was not familiar with, nor open to. Others were unpredictable, what they might want from him is not an option. Men in taverns slurred to him he was missing out, barmaids on their lap and a face full of the woman's chest. Emil was not without desires, no. But to be so vulnerable with another is out of the question. And he did not want to be strung along when love turned to loathe. So he shifted out from Solas' hand on his back and offered a smile instead. He would not get too familiar with another's touch.

He needed to start wearing a cover for his face to hide things from these people. He was sure he had a dragon priest mask somewhere. Cold air sent his nose running. He cleaned it off with the back of his hand.

He was provided with some gear, not his own, but it would do. It sure was warmer than what he wore the first trip around Haven. If he can recall, it was called ‘scout mail’. It colours the same muted browns and greens that seems to be the trend in these parts. It felt weird to have his legs in pants, without something covering them. Usually, there was some swish to his step, but now it was only legs. He stretches them out, leaning on the low fence. His muscles still tense. When he stretches his arms out over his head he lets out a loud yawn. Mouth open wide enough to catch bugs. His canine teeth sharper than most common folk. One of the perks of being Dovahkiin he guessed.

 

* * *

 

His ears listen to the sound of clashing metal from different directions. One source a blacksmith, the other a training yard. He heads towards the training yard after noticing a particular blonde.

Cullen's attention directed toward a thick set of documents. So much to do. Emil does not wait for Cullen to finish signing it before he snakes his arm over his soldier. The last of the words he wrote in a child’s scrawl, due to the added weight on his arm.

Such simple contact was enough the waiver his composure. Emil had not set out to tease the man, only to establish a friendly encounter. But this was good. Emil had to actually try to get a reaction from Cassandra. He had not yet. He would have to try much harder.

“[At the beck and call of the masses are we?]” Emil asks, his warm breath reaching the other man’s neck. He chuckles when Cullen shifts under the casual arm slung over him. He felt quite the hypocrite.

“Hello...Emil,” Cullen starts. Choking on the end of his sentence. Emil, not to overstay his welcome, takes his arm away. He was not out to make enemies. Cullen seems relieved in a way only trained eyes could see.

“Hello Cullen,” Emil says, voicing his understanding of the greeting. He was right proud of himself for it too. They stand side by side. Neither continues the conversation. Emil decides to take in his surroundings. His eyes skate over the frozen lake and climb the tall mountains. His eyes linger on the skies wound. Had he done that? Had he really done it? He tears his eyes away, looking at it was enough to frustrate him. Maybe this time he would be credited for his work? He would not count on it.

Everything was coated in the snow like icing. Squinting his eyes he spots movement in the treeline. Horned creatures with thick wool. Trebuchet's dot the length of Haven’s wall. Emil hopes they worked better to defend the place than the lot in front of him. Cullen clears his throat in a clumsy manner, shifting on his feet so their arms no longer touched. Emil looks at him to see his eyes are busy with the soldiers in front of him. Over busy, like he was avoiding looking at him.  Emil plays along and does the same.

“[Ah, to train the incompetent,]” He says. To call them anything but, was a stretch. From the way, they held their shield to the position of their feet. There was a lot to teach. A particular soldier looks to be at the point of exhaustion.

“[I’m sure you have everything under control. But that one over there. He looks like he’s about to fall on his sword.]” Cullen spots the man he is pointing at, and steps quick to action. Emil watches as he chews out the guy for not being more careful. ‘Something something takes a nap’ He hears him say. He then heads to the inside of the gate.

 

* * *

 

Uniforms looked more collective. Most wore the same colours and the same symbol. A sword and an eye. All that wore the symbol looked busy working towards something. Something Emil was sure to be a part of. Whether he liked it or not. He was not unfamiliar with being apart of a faction, though it was usually due to his own will. Well, as much free will as you can get when you are roped into a scheme in the middle of a market. Thanks to Brynjolf for seeking him out there.

The Thieves Guild was kind enough. They were all bad people, no doubt, but after The Companions, no surprises was a welcome change. He had stayed with them for a time before moving on. A shame this was too. He felt as though he got along well with Ria and Torvar. And he did not half mind the view that Farkas brought to the table either. Training sessions with the less snarky of the brothers was an occasion. A vacation for the eyes. He ran for the hills when things went hairy. Quite literally when Aela turned werewolf and it was a change expected of him too. He did his best to avoid blood-drinking rituals if he could.

His stomach growls at the smell of stew. To sneak himself a bowl would be easy. He had done so so many times in the past. His meals ranged from free to unconventional. He had even eaten an entire cheese-wheel to himself once for a bet. It wasn’t worth it. But if you asked him, it was a crowning achievement and an insult to insinuate anything less.

His pack could serve something to tire him over til supper.

He was not allowed access to his supplies without supervision. But a few coins of questionable value slipped to the guard was enough to give him full reign. Bribes, the universal language. Back in what he has come to call ‘his’ cabin, he slips his pack out of its obvious hiding spot under the bed. Sometimes it was best to do the expected. He reaches past compounds for alchemy to find what he’s looking for. Packaged smoke-dried meat. Venison to be specific. He hoped it was the deer from the last hunt and not the one month's prior. A specific date was hard to pin with all the passing out and memory-stealing comas. With a disregard for its shelf life, he ate it on the floor where he sat.

Satisfied with his salty snack he then grabs a book from his pack with the rope of taffy he thought about earlier. He and Varric had a form of arrangement. The dwarf would read to him in a voice Emil found so soothing. He cared not for what he said as long it was his voice.

They had this little session almost every afternoon. He had found the ‘dwarf’, as he's called,  not far from his cabin, where he wrote. It was not long till the quiet of quill scratching ink on parchment was interrupted. Emil was confused at first, thinking Varric was talking to him. As confusion went on he realised he was talking _at_ him. A story, a shopping list, or a death threat. Whatever Varric was writing was shared with him, and he had come back for the same the next day. After, Emil would split for dinner and take it in his room. Pass out with a full belly, more oft than not spilling whatever remained in the bowl on the bedspread. Falling asleep way before nightfall like some kind of mother’s well-behaved brat. Today was different. He planned to return the favour, thus the book he grabbed. He tucks it away on his person. A gift was best given as a surprise.

 

* * *

 

Emil sat on a log with a thud and takes a bite of his taffy treat, chewing as he waited for Varric to acknowledge him.

“Nice to see you’re on time as always. Persistent bastard aren't you, Lefty?”  Emil knew that Varric had given him a nickname based on the scar. He did not mind it at all. He also knew Varric could use his time to teach him. But the man already knew that was not what he was there for. Emil figured enough people were lecturing him, and a distraction was what he needed. Solas could teach him, Varric will talk at him until he could talk back. Varric takes out the book of the evening. He gets Emil to scooch over on the log and turns to the bookmarked page. Emil closes it in Varric’s hands and shakes his head.

“No, Varric,” Emil starts. His pronunciation is off but Varric gets the idea. “ Yes, Emil,” He says shoving the string of candy into Varric’s hand. Emil pulls out the surprise from his coat pocket. Varric smiles and chuckles. He puts his book away before he starts digging into the candy. Much like how Emil would, one could say he was mimicking him. A shame Emil lacked chest hair, or he would mimic him right back. The sun starts its slow decline, to dip behind mountains high, and rather ominous. The sky starts to turn a few shades darker. Emil clears his throat, turning to page one of ‘The Lusty Argonian Maid’.

 

* * *

 

Emil's eyes were crusted over with sleep. He was hesitant to leave the warmth of his bed. He found himself becoming quite lazy with nothing to do. He would nap late into the sun’s peak. These needed to stop, less his discipline escapes him. Today he was sent for early in the morning, escorted to the war room by a guard or someone to that extent.

They also wore the symbol as all the others. Emil was either there for the dawn of a new faction or a cult. He had entered the war room with to find all three of the advisors. As well as Cassandra, and his personal translator; Solas.

Emil sipped on his pulp of a drink, ingredients unknown to him. The advisers and Cassandra were deep in discussion. Solas and Emil shared a bench in the room. Solas had yet to give translations to Emil. He knew full well that he would not listen to the discussion till it involved him.

“To send the Herald into the midst of the Templars and Mage battlegrounds is as good as sending him to his death!” Cullen protests to the party.

“To keep the Herald from it does not do us any good either! Unless you know another who can seal the rifts,” Cassandra says.

“Mother Giselle sends for him personally,” Josephine says.

“It’s true, not only that, but my agents say the situation is dire. A visit from the Herald would offer much hope.” Leliana says.

Emil had come to know that Varric was not the only one who had given him a nickname. Solas had done his best to describe his new title to him. From what he could understand he was not only the Dovahkiin anymore. He had mulled it over in his head whether he should be honest when it came to his dragon soul.

He had been asked about his display at the giant rift. He had done his best to draw a diagram, but the dragon came out looking more like a serpent. His drawing of himself had no likeness unless he looked a stick-figure. He added pointed ears to try and get the message across. The look he was given should be reserved for a mad-man. No one believing him the Dragonborn was common enough to not surprise him. Thinking of the people, around here many had bowed to him. Offered him thanks in the form of gifts. He wondered just what the title ‘Herald’ meant to the people and how long it would take to go to his head.

The mystery of his whereabouts became more frustrating with each passing day. The lack of a second moon was a headache enough. He had flipped through maps and books that he should have a basic understanding of where he is. He had even tried talking to many people in an attempt to find someone who spoke the same as him. His reply most often a polite nod. He was sure that Leliana had caught that display of running around the camp. He was embarrassed, but desperation was a more prominent feeling. He is back in the present with the call of his name.

Solas has done so. Emil had almost choked on his drink. He spilt it on himself and onto the floor instead. It was so thick though it could be called a solid meal. It would no doubt stain his shirt. And the pile is formed on the floor drew comparisons the mess the horse had made at his feet yonder day ago. With that visual, he sets the drink down. Emil looks about the room to see all eyes on him. He offers them a shrug of his shoulders.

Solas translates to him once the commander stifled his giggling. It seemed as though the Herald and company were to head to this place called ‘The Hinterlands’. They were to meet with a re-known individual named 'Mother Giselle'. By the name, Emil guessed a holy woman and he hoped that first impression was not too important. 


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When communication among his travelling companions is not really an option, Emil has some time to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been fussing over this chapter way too much and I kinda just need to get it out of the way to continue the story. Its short and a little messy but its something ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Trudging through the slush of frost and mud, Emil drags his feet. His hands grip a leash to guide the horse beside him. It was the horse he had become acquainted with back in Haven. It's condition unchanged from their first encounter. Its assignment to him makes Emil think that the display of his meeting with the beast had an audience. An audience who interpreted it as a bonding moment. He appreciated the thought at least. He was thankful it carried his supplies, but he could not bring himself to ride the old thing. Not that he even knew how to mount a horse.

He trailed several feet behind the brunt of the group, having nothing to add to the conversation. He instead focuses on the song of birds. It was early in the morning that they began their trek. Which means he has been walking with the enthusiasm of the undead since dawn. His provided boots coated with sludge. He had yet to get his own threads back, but an explanation for their absence was translated. They were studying the magical properties of the materials. They were also trying to figure out where he had come from. They hoped the stitching or style would clue them into a point of origin. They too were just as confused as him to his sudden appearance in these lands. He had told them where he had come from, but he was met with only quizzical looks. They had not heard of Skyrim.

All the maps Emil had studied clued him into being far from home. Wherever that is. To call Skyrim his home seems unfitting. It felt more like an extended visit. He did not ‘nest’, there is not any personalization to his property in Whiterun. All his additions to Breezehome were more of a slow transition into an armoury. His housecarl had seen the interior more than him. He wouldn’t be surprised if Lydia decided to just take over the main bedchamber.

Emil was amidst the absence of his own common sense. He decided that going along with whatever these people thrust at him would be the surefire way of not getting killed, at least by their hand. After all, he was certain the mark he carried on his hand of was enough significance to have him an asset, or a pawn. This organisation he has been forcibly conscripted to undoubtedly had enemies. Most movements do, especially when they involve the religious. A heavy sigh expels his lungs. It was always ‘almighty this’ and ‘holy intervention that’. Could the bastards not pray and preach the glory of the divines everytime the sun rose each morning?  You would think they would cast their eyes to the ground to view the blood spilt in their names and reconsider the repercussions of blindly following another.

Emil’s eyes train forward to the figures ahead, the ones leading his path and he considers it ironic. Maybe this chain of thought was an omen. Despite having a hefty lack of confidence in this alliance, he would much rather have an army at his side when confronting the opposing forces of his current allies. Then again, when he thinks back to the recruits at haven, a lukewarm bath of a situation turns ice cold, sending a shiver up his spine. He considers a run for the treeline, but besides his mace, his entire pack sat beneath the frail frame of a little cot in a cold, dusty shack back at base camp. He had enough coin to pay off the guard to get his pack, not enough to get everyone to look the other way.

However, he did get permission to grab his mace, his most prized possession, as he required some form of protection. Scraps, tantrums, and petty quarrels were something Emil never grew out of. As a child, he claimed a rivalry with a certain ram and would wrestle with it on many an occasion. This caused him many an injury, but his stubborn pride did not let him learn his lesson. When old age claimed Emil's glory, he claimed one of the creatures horns, which he crafted into a stylish waterskin. His antics were the bane of his mother’s patience, but she did not complain when the second horn was gifted to her.

He learnt not too later down the line that hitting back works a lot better when you got a heavy stick.

This leads him to become familiar with the weight of a mace, and the heavy blows it deals out. He could not claim a better weapon to pick off bandits with a satisfying crunch. Such a contradiction to his infiltration style, which left him as quiet and unacknowledged as a shadow. He smiles at the weight of the mace hanging at his side from its holster. Forged it himself, fondly named it ‘Unbroken’ after the bitch who threw a mean punch back in The Bannered Mare. She sure did make a lasting impression on him in the form of a black eye and a chortle of alcoholic celebration. It is a dragon-bone mace, all materials gathered himself. It had many uses, including substituting a climbing grapple when climbing some of the steeper slopes of Skyrim’s mountainous landscape.

His bandages itch with a need to swap them, he hopes he is rid of the things entirely in the not too distant future. The first thing he would do is hunt down this bug who has taken advantage of his injured predicament. It has rammed itself into the left side of his face enough times that assembling small guillotine borders on reasonable instead of insanity. The horse receives much of the same treatment. No doubt the culprit of the pest was a result of the horse itself, whose smell was akin to that of curdled milk. It soured Emil at first, but like most things, he grew to ignore it. But these people, the sky, its monsters, and this mark, and apparently this one bug, are things he can not ignore. Again, duty is forced on him, and he would have to play a role in this fate. Much like the horse beside him, he may not be the pick for the task, but its what they have and both parties have to deal with it, regardless of qualification or injury. The scrawny thing limps beside him at the pace of a grandmother. The bug lands on Emil's face yet again and it is no sooner dead, at the cost of using his injured hand. With the riddance of the annoyance the two breathe out in relief in unison.

“[So my smelly friend, it seems we have more in common than I thought,]”Emil says loud enough that only his barely qualifying quadrupedal friend could hear. Snorting in response the horse attempts something of a shimmy, though its own injury did not help and it gave up on it within seconds, making Emil grin.

  
“[I think I’m gonna call you Righty, only fitting for my lost twin.]” Emil held his wrapped arm. His feet are sore, but he continues to walk beside the newly dubbed “Righty” as not to put any more weight on the creatures bad leg. He pats the stringy hair on its head and putting up with its lack hygiene. Now, this was a bonding moment.


End file.
